


Soup

by anzallamar



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29049000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzallamar/pseuds/anzallamar
Summary: “Why did you do it? Why did you take that jump?”Eivor tries to get some answers; Hytham mostly tries to get better.
Relationships: Eivor & Hytham (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Soup

“Hytham? Are you awake?” 

He  is , although he very much rather he weren’t.  He tri es to sleep most of the time: there  is nothing else he  can do, nothing else he  is _supposed_ to do, although he hate s that a cowardly part of him like s to disconnect, to fade away and forget where he  is, and how he is . 

“I have brought you some soup, if you want to eat.”

Eivor. He shudders at the sound of her voice. If she had not been there… if only it had been just him, and Kjotve, surely it would not have come to this. How could it have come to this? He had prepared  _everything_ .  He had anticipated  _everything_ , except Eivor. 

No, no. This is stupid, you are being stupid. You cannot change the way the board has been laid, like in game of  _ shatranj _ : you can only play as best as you are able. Think again, all the pieces are in front of you. Eivor is here, was always going to be here, and was always going to kill Kjotve. You were in the way. Why did you have to be in the way? 

“Valka says you will live.” 

“My master says I will _never heal_.” Hytham spits out, finally. He is immediately taken aback: what was that? He had carefully cultivated measured speech and tones, first as a young scribe in the House of Wisdom, much more even later as an acolyte of the Brotherhood. He prized himself on his ability to disappear, not to whine and sulk like a child. He hides the grimace with the pain in his side. It’s not hard. 

Eivor shrug ged . “If I were you, I’d try to prove him wrong.” 

Stubborn, pig-headed Norse.  Damned incomprehensile, unreasonable populace.  Stupid customs.  Not a lick of civility to be found. Avenging the honour of her fallen parents? Senseless, useless. What is  _that_ in the face of our great work?  A drop of blood in the rain. You are a blade in the crow d . Never compromise, never disgrace the Brotherhood. 

What is she doing?

“I think you’re still feverish.” Eivor says, leaving a trail of his sweat on the front of her armour. “”It’s probably the hit you took. Reminds me of when I fell off Sigurd’s horse as a child; now that’s a story he will never let me live down.”

S he’s sitting down. Hytham realizes there’s no making her leave. Why does she insist? She had her prize; she  _took_ his prize. What does she  _want_ ? 

Perhaps he should pretend to be asleep.  That will make her leave. 

“I wanted a horse. Styrbjorn said it was too soon, I was having none of it, so I took Sigurd’s. Except they were right: I was too little. It threw me off, knocked the wind out of me. They were so worried!” 

Why is she telling this story? Why are _they_ all so obsessed with stories?

“Spent a week inside, stuck, like you are now, I guess. Worst week of my life, although I did learn how to throw knives during. Sigurd snuck me some blades, to keep me occupied. But I suppose you already know how to do that. Perhaps you can take up weaving?”

None of this makes sense. Nothing has made a lick of sense since he stepped foot in this forsaken, frozen shithole. Eivor most of all makes no sense: women don’t fight. Women don’t _raid_. Women don’t split his target’s skull with an axe: they kill with poison, which is much more sensible and refined.

He has to _know_.

“Why….” he croaks. “Why are you … _like this_.”

Eivor smiles. “Like what? Exceedingly handsome? Or brave? Or bold?”

“Why … are you here. Now.”

A shadow of something passes on her face. “I wanted to know how you’re feeling.”

“I feel like … an elephant sat on me.” 

“What’s an elephant?” 

He thinks, he is back in Baghdad. The caliph’s menagerie. “Huge animal… grey skin. Hard leather. Big as a house. Its nose … it grabs with it. Eats leaves.”

She’s making him talk; it hurts; it’s useless. He hates that he is answering. But since when has he been able to resist giving an answer? Since when could he resist showing off, as the masters put it, or “imparting knowledge”, as Basim did?

“Gods! I wish I could have seen one. Perhaps … one day”.

Great, now the woman is thinking of raiding the Caliphate. Is it too far? Could be, but it’s best to distract her.

“I think… I will have the soup.”

“Here, I’ll help you.” He leans on her and sits up. It’s terrible. It’s terrible that she’s so gentle. How can she be so gentle and a drengr? Nothing is true...

“Hytham… I want to ask you something, if you won’t mind.”

“...everything is permitted.”

Eivor smiles. “Why did you do it? Why did you take that jump?”

  
His head feels warm and mushy, or he’s probably too close to the soup. It’s best to sleep for real, now. What jump? Ah, yes.

“The leap… of faith.”

She seems puzzled. “Is that what you call it?”

“One day… maybe I’ll tell you. Show you how. You have to learn… I can tell you.”

He leans back. Eivor saying she’ll take him to his word it’s the last thing he hears, then it’s back to dreams.

* * *

“Eivor!”

“Sigurd. What word from Father?”

“We ride soon; it’s an Althing; King Harald calls us there. We will all go.” Sigurd kicks up some snow, then turns. “How is he?” 

“Delirious. But Valka says he will live.”

“I hope so. Basim cannot afford to lose his apprentice.”

“Sigurd…” Eivor hesitates. “Why did he do it?”

“I don’t know, Eivor. I made sure the matter was clear, even back in Miklagard: Kjotve was yours, and Basim understood. He tells me Hytham had never disobeyed a direct order before.” Sigurd stares at his sister. “Do not feel bad. Our fates are woven: his was to take that fall.”

“Our fates are woven _now_ , brother. Mine and his. Kjotve had his bastard hand on my neck when Hytham jumped. He gave me an opening. A few seconds too late, and perhaps you’d be short a drengr.”

“I cannot believe that.” Sigurd’s hand is warm and heavy on her shoulder. “But if I did, then I would be doubly glad he lives, so that I can thank him when he's up and well.”

“It kills me that I will never know, Sigurd. I will never know if I could have killed him alone.”

“You’re letting Kjotve haunt you, sister. He’s dead, don’t let him tear at you from Hel.”

“I suppose … we do not always get to know the answers.”

“That we don’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> I think not even Hytham knows why he did it, and I think not even Eivor knows if she would have made it. It's in this little grey areas that good stories are born ... I put this in parallel with Eivor / Hytham not knowing why Basim betrays them in endgame, and most likely never finding out. 
> 
> Hytham is going through all seven stages of post-fuck up at once, poor child, with broken ribs to boot. 
> 
> Shatranj is the Persian-then-Arabic chess precursor.


End file.
